The Screw again turns.

A gnarled tree stands sentinel in the foreground, its bark pierced by old, rusted screws - they are memories embedded in its flesh. From one twisted branch hangs a solitary lantern, casting a warm, flickering glow that barely touches the creeping shadows. In the distance, the haunted mansion looms, its windows dimly lit, surrounded by skeletal trees and swirling mist.

It is a moment suspended in time - quiet, watchful...and full of unspoken dread. The screws represent psychological pressure - the lantern a fragile grasp on truth.

Chapter One: The Lantern and the New Arrival

The gnarled tree had always been there - older than the mansion, older than the town, older perhaps than the secrets that clung to Blythe Manor like mildew. Locals called it the Screw Tree, though no one agreed on who first hammered metal into its bark or why. Some said each screw marked a confession. Others whispered they were anchors, pinning restless spirits to the earth.

Ameria didn’t believe any of that.

Not yet.

She stood beneath the twisted branches, suitcase at her feet, breath fogging in the cold morning air. The lantern swayed above her, its flame trembling as though nervous to illuminate what waited in the shadows.

Her phone buzzed with a message from the agency:

WELCOME TO BLYTHE. TRUST YOUR INSTINCTS.

Ameria frowned. Agencies didn’t send cryptic messages. Agencies sent PDFs and liability waivers.

Before she could type a reply, a small voice drifted from behind the tree.

“You shouldn’t stand there,” the girl said.

Ameria turned to find Evana - eight years old, solemn-eyed, wearing a coat two sizes too big. Beside her, Luek clutched a stuffed fox with one ear missing.

“Why not?” Ameria asked gently.

Evana pointed to the screws.

“They remember things. And they don’t like new people.”

Luek nodded, wide-eyed. “They whisper at night.”

Ameria crouched to their level, forcing a smile. “Well, I don’t scare easy. And I’m very good at ignoring rude trees.”

Evana didn’t smile back.

“Not everything here can be ignored.”

A gust of wind swept through the clearing, rattling the screws like teeth chattering in the cold. The lantern flickered wildly, casting long, frantic shadows across the children’s faces.

Ameria felt something then - an almost imperceptible pressure behind her eyes, like a thought that wasn’t hers trying to push its way in.

She straightened.

“Let’s get inside,” she said. “All of us.”

Evana hesitated.

Luek clung to her hand.

Together, they walked toward the mansion, its windows glowing faintly as though watching their approach. The mist curled around their ankles, like snakes which the screws had hidden decades ago.

Ameria didn’t look back at the tree. But the tree watched her go.

And somewhere deep within its bark, one of the rusted screws shifted - just slightly - as if waking.

Chapter Two: Nightfall in Blythe

After acquainting herself with the staff and other inhabitants of the house, they all had supper. Goodnights were said, and the children were seen off to bed. Ameria then proceeded to her room.

The room was on the third floor, tucked beneath the slanted roof where the wind liked to prowl. catlike and stealthy. The walls were papered in a faded floral pattern - roses that had long since lost their color, their petals ghost-pale. A single lamp glowed on the bedside table, its light too warm, too small, as if it knew it was outmatched by the dark.

Switching on the overhead light, she unpacked slowly, listening.

The mansion had a way of breathing.

Floorboards sighed.

Pipes muttered.

Somewhere deep in the walls, something tapped - soft, rhythmic, like a fingernail on wood.

Ameria paused, her hands hovering over a sweater.

Tap.

Tap.

Tap.

She crossed the room and pressed her ear to the wall. The tapping stopped instantly, as though it had been waiting for her.

“Old houses,” she whispered to herself, though the words felt thin.

She changed into pajamas, brushed her teeth, turned the bright overhead light out and climbed into bed. The sheets were cold - colder than they should have been. As she pulled the blanket up, the lamp flickered once, twice, then steadied.

Ameria exhaled.

Then the tapping returned.

This time from the ceiling.

A slow, deliberate scrape.

She stared upward, heart thudding.

The sound moved - dragging across the beams, traveling toward the far corner of the room.

Ameria sat up.

“Evana?” she called softly, though she knew the children were two floors below.

The scraping stopped.

Silence pooled in the room, thick and waiting.

Ameria forced herself to lie back down. She closed her eyes. She breathed. She counted. Eventually, exhaustion pulled her under.

But just before sleep claimed her, she heard a whisper - so faint she could have imagined it.

“You’re late.” -

Chapter Three: The Children Know More Than They Should

The next morning, Ameria found Evana and Luek in the breakfast room, sitting stiffly at the long oak table. The children looked as though they’d been awake for hours.

Evana stirred her porridge without eating it.

Luek’s fox sat propped beside his bowl, its single ear drooping like a sad friend.

Ameria poured herself tea. “Did either of you hear anything strange last night?”

Evana’s spoon froze.

Luek’s eyes darted to the ceiling.

“What do you mean by strange?” Evana asked.

Ameria hesitated. “Tapping. Scraping. Maybe an animal in the attic.”

Luek shook his head immediately. “Not an animal.”

Evana shot him a sharp look, but the boy continued, voice trembling.

“They walk up there. They don’t like the new rooms.”

Ameria set her cup down carefully. “Who walks up there?”

Evana answered before Luek could.

“People who aren’t supposed to be here anymore.”

Ameria felt a chill crawl up her spine. “Ghosts?”

Evana didn’t flinch.

“They’re not ghosts the way stories say. They’re… leftovers, momma says. Like echoes that don’t know how to fade.”

Luek leaned closer, whispering, “They watch us through the screws.”

Ameria blinked. “The screws in the tree?”

“No,” Evana said quietly. “The ones in the walls.”

Ameria’s breath caught.

She hadn’t noticed screws in her room.

But she hadn’t looked closely, either.

Evana finally met her gaze, her eyes far too old for her age.

“They know you’re here now,” she said. “And they’re deciding what to do about it.”

Ameria swallowed. “And what do you think they’ll decide?”

Evana’s expression softened - just barely.

“That depends on whether you help us.”

Luek nodded vigorously. “We want them gone. All of them.”

Ameria leaned forward, her voice steady despite the cold knot forming in her chest.

“Then tell me everything.”

Evana took a slow breath, as though preparing to open a door that had been locked for years.

“It started with the first screw,” she said. “The one they put in the tree to keep something from getting out.”

Luek whispered, “But it didn’t work.

Evana nodded.

“And now the house remembers everything.”

Chapter Four: The Silence of the Staff.

By the end of the week, Ameria looked like someone who had been living inside a dream that refused to blink. Shadows clung beneath her eyes. Her hands trembled when she poured tea. Even the children watched her with a kind of quiet sympathy, as though they knew exactly what she was enduring.

The staff, however, behaved as if nothing was wrong.

Luisa, the housekeeper, kept her lips pressed into a thin, polite line whenever Ameria mentioned the noises.

Jake, her husband, busied himself with repairs that never seemed to end...hinges, pipes, shutters - anything that kept him from making eye contact.

Maria, the cook, crossed herself whenever Ameria asked a direct question, then muttered something in Spanish about cosas que no se nombran - things that should not be named.

The gardener, Frank - just stared up at the windows knowingly. "They was ere long afore any of us, and they be ere long after we az left". Frank was young, a student at the college who works on weekends and odd days to make pocket money. He grinned cheekily at Ameria, making fun of his own made-up dialect. But at least he admitted that there was something to all of the strange carryings on.

Ameria cornered Luisa first.

“Have you ever heard footsteps in the attic?” she asked.

Luisa’s feather duster froze. “Old houses make old sounds.”

“These weren’t old sounds,” Ameria insisted. “They were deliberate.”

Luisa resumed dusting, her movements too quick. “You must be tired. Blythe can be… overwhelming at first.”

Ameria tried Jake next.

“Is there anyone else living on the property?” she asked.

Jake tightened a bolt on a window frame without looking up. “No one living.”

Ameria blinked. “What does that mean?”

Jake stood abruptly, wiped his hands on his trousers, and walked away.

Maria was the last hope.

“Maria, please,” Ameria whispered. “I need to know what’s happening here.”

Maria’s eyes softened with pity. “Señorita… some truths only make things worse.”

Ameria felt something inside her snap - not fear but resolve.

“Then I’ll find someone who isn’t afraid to speak.”

Chapter Five: Calling the Church

That night, after the children were asleep and the mansion had settled into its usual uneasy breathing, Ameria sat at the small desk in her room. The lamp flickered, as if protesting what she was about to do.

She opened her laptop and searched for the nearest parish.

The cursor blinked.

The walls creaked.

A screw somewhere behind her head gave a faint metallic sigh.

Ameria dialed the number.

A voice answered on the second ring - calm, measured, with the faintest trace of weariness.

“St. Bartholomew’s Parish. Father Calder speaking.”

Ameria swallowed. “Father, my name is Ameria. I’m an au pair at Blythe Manor. I… I think something is wrong here.”

A pause.

Not a surprised pause - an, I’ve heard this before pause.

“What kind of wrong?” Father Calder asked.

Ameria hesitated. “There are noises. Footsteps. Whispers. The children say the house remembers things. And the staff won’t talk.”

Another pause.

Longer this time.

“Blythe Manor,” he said slowly. “Yes. I know the place.”

Ameria’s pulse quickened. “Then you know what’s happening?”

“I know,” he said, “that Blythe has a history of… attachments.”

“Ghosts?” Ameria whispered.

“Not ghosts,” Father Calder replied. “Something older. Something that binds itself to wood, to concrete and metal.”

Ameria’s breath caught. “The screws.”

“Yes,” he said. “The screws.”

The lamp flickered violently, then steadied.

“Father,” Ameria said, voice trembling, “can you come?”

“I can,” he answered. “But you must understand - once I step onto that property, things may escalate. Whatever is there will not welcome interference.”

Ameria looked toward the ceiling, where the footsteps had scraped night after night.

“Then come quickly,” she said. “Before it decides I’m the interference.”

Father Calder exhaled, a sound like an incomplete prayer.

“I’ll be there by morning.”